


Holyhead

by thememoriesfire



Category: Skins
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-07
Updated: 2010-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-11 01:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/106678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Naomi learns about swimming upstream.  Post S4, gen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holyhead

The party winds down abruptly when Effy notices Cook is missing, and then even more abruptly when she looks down at the shirt she’s wearing and starts crying, big heaving sobs that set Karen off a moment later, until Panda is trying to sing her song and encouraging everyone else to chime in, but it’s just too bloody awkward, isn’t it.

And then there’s Emily, looking up with those for-once not sad or angry eyes, tugging on your shirt, and you look at your looney best friend and figure that five other people will probably be enough to stop her from doing anything dreadfully stupid again.

Emily tangles your hands together on the walk back to your house—your, plural, for the first time in ages—and then almost skips and laughs at once.

"Since you were twelve. _Really_,” she says, teasingly, and you knew she was going to take the piss eventually, but didn’t expect it to be so soon; like maybe she was less angry than you thought she was all along, and this was just the magic phrase that you needed to utter.

You shrug impotently, but hang on to her hand.  "Yeah. I mean, I don't remember it all that clearly, but you were with Katie; of course you were, and she was giving some boy grief about having pulled on your hair in gym. Shoved him right up against the lockers, and you just looked like you were going to cry--but you didn't. Bit your lip and held it right in." 

The memory makes you smile, until you look at Emily’s face again, who is now definitely not skipping or looking like you’ve fixed everything.

"What?" you ask; it starts to rain abruptly, and Emily untangles your hands and starts to fumble around her hand bag, producing an umbrella a moment later. 

It’s unwrapped and opened with haggard movements, while she says, softly, “I remember that day; mostly because Katie did cry, but only when we were alone, and nobody could see her do it."

Katie?  You close your eyes even as she steps in closer again, until you hear the rain slip and slide off the umbrella that she’s holding over your head, giving you time to think again (you always need it, you’re so fucking inept about everything).

"Yeah,” she finally says, when you’ve had enough.

You know you’ve just cocked up, but still, six years of behavior can’t change overnight, and so you look at her with a bit of impatience.  "Oh, come on; we were twelve! You didn't even know who I was back then."

Emily bristles visibly.  "Yes, probably because you were too busy falling in love at first sight with my _sister_. That's just fucking great, Naomi. Really romantic."  She starts walking off, leaving you to catch the rain by yourself.

Her umbrella’s leopard-print, and you stare at that for a moment before hurrying after her.  "Emily, be fair.  You’re twins, aren’t you?”

Emily’s shoulders set and she keeps running off in front of you, one arm crossed in front of her chest. 

You try harder.  “I really don't see how this is my fault, all I meant is--you know what I just said. She's the bruiser; you've always been the one that needed some protecting, you know, who looked like you might need a friend."

She rails on you then, almost poking you in the eye with the tip of the umbrella.  "What do you expect me to say? Thanks for acting on your heroic impulses sometime within the decade--glad it only took you six years to figure out we might get on? Oh, wait, but it's a pure accident, isn't it. Maybe you should call Katie and talk this over with her, y'know, in the interest of your long-standing relationship."

She’s positively fuming at you—the connection to the past six months of your relationship obviously not severed entirely, but at least you don’t think you’ll make her cry tonight.  It’s just so surreal, when you think about how everyone else is leaving and all you want to do is take her to Goa.  "Ems...” you say, a bit pathetic and pleadingly, but she shakes her head in disgust and starts walking again.  “Emily, for God's sake, you can't actually be mad about this; so fucking what if I mistook you for Katie six years ago? I'm here now, aren't I? I love you _now_."

That stops her in her tracks, and you watch her head lower, the hair at the back of her neck curling in the rain.  "Yeah. Love. This whole thing between us, where you think you love me, and I think I love you--what's it based on? You thinking I cried one morning at school; me thinking that it was me that you wanted to be kissing at that party?"

"You're not being reasonable." you say, already feeling the dull blow of a fight you’ll never win with her.  You might as well have yelled ‘I felt trapped’ a second time, even though this isn’t at all the same thing, and she could give you a break.

"Yeah, well, life's not reasonable, is it? Have fun in Goa,” she says, and when you reach the end of the street, she turns left and you go straight.

You text her sister, who phones you back ten minutes later.

“Big romantic fix-up didn’t even last half a fucking hour?  That’s got to be a new record, even for you,” Katie says, sounding drunk and intrigued rather than bitchy for a change.

“I think she’s heading for the caravan; people are home, aren’t they?” you just ask, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of agreeing.

“Bugger, no—my dad took James to a drag queen show and my mum’s probably still at the office,” Katie says, and then there’s a lot of rustling, until she’s suddenly a lot more clear.  “Oy, is that you, the drenched poodle in the middle of the road?  Just stay put, I’ve got a brolly.”

You feel completely pathetic, and moments later, there’s an umbrella over your head.  It’s plain black, and you laugh when you see it.

“What?” Katie asks, sounding out of breath and fidgeting with her shoe until it’s slipped back on comfortably.  “And what have you done now?”

You can’t bring it up, not tonight, but just say, “I didn’t cheat on her again or anything; it just wasn’t ever going to be this easy, was it.”

“Well, duh.  It’s real love, innit?” Katie asks, and then glances back towards where Freddie’s shed is.  You wonder what she’s thinking, until she says, “Well, get a fucking move on then; you can talk to her in the caravan, and I’ll put on some headphones and a face mask so I don’t have to watch you slobber all over each other when you’ve groveled enough.”

“Thanks,” you say, but for one moment, it looks like Katie’s actually on your side, and if that’s not the most fucked up thing you’ve found out tonight, you don’t honestly know anymore.

\----

You end up home, alone, with a black umbrella; Katie prodded you in the chest with it right before you left, and then said, “If this isn’t back here as soon as it stops raining—“ in a threatening voice, like the sodding thing was laced with solid gold.

Still, at least she gave you an umbrella; all Emily gave you is four more scratches on your cheek.

“Haven’t you hurt me enough?” you yelled at her, or tried to, but you were crying and swallowing and you were all drunk.

Emily looked at her own hand and pulled it back like it was actually a weapon.  “Just go,” she said, as if it was okay for her to do it, when for nearly eight months she hurt you this badly and you had to let her stay.

It’s bollocks, you know, when you pop the umbrella open and leave it to dry in the hallway.  That’s when someone clears their throat and looks at you with an obvious mixture of concern and judgment.

“I was going to clean,” you say, feebly, even as your mum just raises her eyebrows.

Then, you burst into tears all over again, and she says, “I think we can still sit in the kitchen, can’t we?”

\----

She finagles two brollies over the deck chairs on the patio instead, and you drink your tea with wet feet and cold hands, but you had no idea you even missed her until she was there, saying, “You’re not leaving this house until you’ve helped me clean it.”

“Don’t you want to know what happened?” you ask, half a mug later.

Your mum just shrugs.  “I called once a week, Naomi, and everything was always fine.  If you were lying to me for eight months, it must’ve been for a good reason.”

The tea is done and sat on the ground, and you light a fag in front her—eighteen now—while she either pretends not to care, or actually doesn’t. 

“How’s Emily?” she then finally asks, and the cigarette trembles in your mouth until you have to rescue it with your fingers.

“I cheated on her.  Then her entire family got evicted, and they lived here for a bit; and then Emily just stayed, for months.  Sometimes with other girls, you know.  She kissed two of them in front of me.  I think she was just punishing me, but that doesn’t make it any better.”  Your mum doesn’t say anything, and you feel a sick swell of laughter come up.  “So then you called, and said you were coming back, and it’s like I just then realized that I was going to uni in less than two months and I was living with someone who hated me.  I put it all out there, you know?”

“Hm,” your mum says, and then holds out a hand for your cigarette.

“Told her how long I’ve fancied her, and that I don’t think—Christ, I don’t know, I was desperate,” you say, closing your eyes.  “I don’t even know what I said; just, that I was honest, about how much I love her, and I thought things were going to be fine.”

“Where did it all go wrong?” your mum almost sing-songs, and when you glance at her, she’s looking at the tool shed in the back; haphazardly put together by Kieran, and fuck, you’ve got the same horrible genes.  Maybe you’re just meant to be a catastrophe.

“The person I fell in love with at first sight years ago wasn’t her, as it turns out.  It was her sister.”

Your mum starts laughing so low that the rain covers up the sound, and by the time you finally notice she’s got tears in her eyes and is shaking in the deck chair.

“Thanks,” you mutter sourly, before flicking the fag into the yard, and then your mum reaches for your hand.

“I’m sorry; I’m jetlagged, and also, it would be hard not to be offended.  She’ll come around, though, Naomi.  It’s not like this compares to cheating in any way.”

“Yeah, but does it compare to six years of giving her shit just because I was afraid?” you ask in turn, a bit pointedly, and your mum just smoothes down your wet hair, pulls the curls right out of it, and then says, “If she wasn’t willing to put up with you being difficult, the shame’s on her for trying in the first place.  It’s not like you hide it, sweetheart.”

“I’ve missed you,” you say, after another long break, until a clap of thunder shoots you both up in the deck chairs.

“We don’t smoke in the house,” your mum says, in response, and that’s how you fall asleep; in a half hug, somewhat subjected to parenting.

\----

You bring the umbrella back two days later, as it’s the kind of pisser that just doesn’t end, and without a single text or call or sign of life from Emily, you really have no desire to see her entire family again.

Jenna opens up, and while you’re convinced you’re imagining it, for a second it’s almost like she’s embarrassed to see you.  “Oh,” is all she says, like you were the last person she was expecting to see.

“I’m—I’ve got Katie’s umbrella here.  Is she in?” you ask.  It’s so sheepish, too, because now that you don’t have Emily on your side, you’re too big a coward to be a bitch to her mum, who is making you feel worse about what a tit you always were on account of now just giving you a pitying look.

“Yes; one second, I’ll get her.”

The door closes in front of you and you sit down on the steps, where Katie joins you a moment later in pajama pants and a hooded sweatshirt and a mug of steaming tea.  “Hey,” she says, voice rough, like she’s been crying a lot.  “I was wondering if you’d bring it back.”

“I’m not a thief, Katie,” you say, tiredly, before leaning back against the trailer.  “Mind if I…?”

She shakes her head and you light a cigarette, before asking around it, “So what’s hit your mum in the head?  She was almost nice just now.”

Katie pulls at one of her earrings until it unclips, and then sticks it in the front pocket of the hood; the other one joins it a second later, and when you look at her sideways, she suddenly looks very young and very shaky.

“She didn’t tell you, did she,” Katie then murmurs, before looking down at the mug.

“Tell me what?”

“That she’s left.  She’s gone to—fuck knows, somewhere.  With that girl.”  Katie blows on her tea and then clears her throat roughly.  “Says she can’t handle Bristol anymore, that everything here just makes her want to…” 

“And you think this is my fault,” you say, slowly, because the idea that Emily’s just gone isn’t quite sinking in; it’s just not settling with everything else you know, which right now is that sometimes, Katie doesn’t look like a battle-axe, and sometimes, Katie’s mum doesn’t act like one; fuck, you don’t know anything, you think, and exhale away from Katie just to get a second to process without her watching you.

“Mum did; said it was because she’d chosen so poorly, you know the entire speech.  But—then the girl; Melly or whatever—“

“Mandy,” you offer, past a lump in your throat.

“Yeah, Mandy, she was like; but Naomi’s not done anything in ages now.  All she wants is to make things right.  Thought Emily was going to fucking slap her to bits right there, but instead she just went into our bedroom to pack a bag, and then they left.”  Katie rubs at her face.  “Got a text off her yesterday, saying she was fine.  That’s it.”

You refuse to cry, because this isn’t on you. A minor spat, in light of the past twelve months, and you think about buckets and drops and you wish Emily was here, just so you could talk some sense into her; maybe even slap it in there, because all the words in the world apparently didn’t even make a dent in her grudge.

“You know that speech?” Katie asks, when you refuse to say anything at all.  “You know, the one you made in the shed.  I thought it was—it was really nice, actually. I think it explains a lot.”

You look over in disbelief, but Katie’s not even looking at you; just picking at grass on the ground and taking the occasional sip of tea.  Her life’s been uprooted so many times in the past year that she’s barely even the same girl again.

“Since when are you and Effy friends again?” you ask, randomly, because you don’t want to talk about your fucking idiot speech or how poorly it went down anymore.

Katie shrugs.  “Hard to stay mad at someone who doesn’t even want to stay alive, isn’t it.  She’s—well fucked up, Naomi.  She needs friends.”

“Yeah, but, she almost killed you,” you say, pointlessly.

Katie shrugs that off, too, and finishes her tea a moment later.  “I fucked up a lot of things before that ever happened; I don’t think there’s any point in staying mad at a crazy person on drugs for being crazy and on drugs, y’know?”

“Yeah,” you say, and think about Cook and his prison experiment, and how you probably would’ve held an eternal grudge in reverse.

“Did you and Emily ever talk about wanting kids?” Katie asks, out of nowhere, and it snaps you out of your thoughts like you’ve been whacked in the skull.

“What?” you ask, with a laugh, and then add a more serious, “Katie, we had perhaps two happy months in our entire relationship; when would that have come up?”

“I don’t know,” Katie responds, flushing and looking a bit angry at your response.  “How the fuck am I supposed to know what lesbians talk about?”

“What does anyone talk about?” you say, baffled, and watch as she bites her lip.

“It’s just fucked up that I don’t know—if she wanted children, you know,” Katie then finally says, and you almost put an arm around her back because it’s like she thinks Emily is dead.

Then it hits you that she’s trying to soften the blow, and it’s not that Emily’s dead at all; it’s that you’re all dead to Emily.

“She would’ve made a good mum, I think,” you mumble in response.  “Unlike me.  I wouldn’t know good parenting if it bit me in the arse.”

“Yeah,” Katie says, before wiping at her eyes just twice; she gets up tiredly and you follow suit, before pressing the umbrella into her hands.  “Thanks.”

“Maybe it’s for the best, you know,” you finally offer, weakly.  “Maybe none of us should stay in Bristol.  Too many fucked up memories here.”

“See you in London, then,” Katie responds after a moment, and heads back inside without looking at you.

Two minutes later, on your walk back, it starts to rain again.

\----

You focus on your art. 

All you end up drawing is pictures of Emily catching Sophia, over and over again, but they’re so abstract that you’d have to actually say as much for anyone to notice.

Then, one day, you think you’re sketching Emily, but you’re a little high and a little drunk and your roommate’s playing The Clash so loudly that the floor’s shaking, and seconds later you’ve widened her face just a bit and given her some long, round earrings, and you cover the canvas up quickly before you can assign any fucking meaning to that at all.

To compensate, you draw every single one of your friends as you remember them; it goes down as your end of term Perspective project, and you head back to Bristol with small bag of clothing and a large bag of paintings that you hope to give out.

\----

Karen opens the door, and looks surprised to see you, though there is some recognition there.  “Heya,” she just says, because it’s not like you know each other at all, and you fidget in the doorway before deciding it’s best to just hand it over.

“I go to a visual arts university; we were asked to work with some pictures of people who mattered to us, to try and develop different types of perspectives, and I did everyone that I went to college with, y’know, my mates back then,” you ramble, before unzipping the art bag and pulling out the first painting.

It’s Freddie skating on an endless street, towards the sun; he’s wearing that stupid hat he always did, and he’s almost looking at the artist, but not quite—you were sure to just about draw a hint of a smile, but not the entire thing.

Karen’s eyes well up after she looks at it for a moment, and then she says, “Thanks” and the door closes again.

You think that was probably the hardest one, all things considered, but you know you’re wrong.

\----

“Nose ain’t that big; you’ve forgotten about the horizon,” Cook says, after looking at his; it involves him being in handcuffs and kicking at a set of bobbies that are trying to hold him down.  You almost drew a text bubble coming out of his mouth with I’M COOK in it, but figured it was implied enough.

“What the fuck do you know about art?” you ask him, when he takes a sip of his beer and puts it down next to him on the floor—like it means nothing.

“Mum’s an artist, isn’t she,” he says evenly.  “How’ve you been, anyway?”

Family isn’t something he’s ever wanted to talk about.  “Good,” you tell him, because admitting you’re lonely to someone who’s lost everyone he ever loved in the span of a year is a dick move.

“What are you fucking these days, then?  Girls?  Boys? Both?” he asks, and after a moment you smile and say, “It’s still not happening, Cookie.”

The hug at the end of the afternoon is sincere; he knits your cardigan with his big hands and pulls you in close, and exhales a plume of smoke before kissing you on the cheek.  “Don’t be a stranger, love,” he says, before walking off quickly in the opposite direction; you know that all he’s really asking is that you don’t die on him as well.

\----

Anthea opens the door and lets you in, with the vaguest bit of recollection shimmering in her eyes; you head up to Effy’s old bedroom and find a bloke there, scribbling furiously in a notebook.

“Hello,” he says, glancing up just briefly.

“I’m—isn’t this Effy’s room?” you ask, awkwardly.

“It was,” the bloke says, before swinging his legs off the bed.  “I’ve finished uni now, and you know how it is; starving artist market, not that raving, so I’m riding out the recession at home.  Someone’s got to keep Ant alive, you know?”

“You’re Tony,” you say, and he sticks out his hand.  “Naomi—friend of Ef’s.”

“Ah, one of the ones that doesn’t visit, but for a reason,” he says easily, and you blink at him twice; he pulls out the desk chair and sits you down in it, and you watch as he tears a blank page out of his notebook and writes down an address there.  “Room 613; do us all a favor and don’t bring up Freddie.  She’s incredibly hard to sedate, you know, and—“

“Jesus Christ,” you say, and then stare at him.

“I’m only joking, except don’t bring up Freddie anyway.  She was doing fine until they found the body.  Even James can’t talk to her about it.”

“James,” you echo dumbly, and then sigh.  “Fuck.  Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

Tony shrugs, but presses the address into her hand.  “She can use all the friends she’s got.  It’s just him and that other girl—you know, the Page 3 model in waiting.”

You laugh tiredly and then say, “But she’ll be all right, won’t she?”

“I won’t let her die,” Tony says, confidently, and then smiles a moment later, as if the two feelings are completely separate

\----

You run into Katie in the reception area.

“Well, look who decided to finally give a fuck,” she says, but without rancor.

“I would’ve given a fuck earlier if anyone had told me,” you say, annoyed, and Katie just shrugs and says, “It was hard enough to tell everyone still here. We didn’t bother with the people who left.  They shouldn’t have to think of her like this, you know?”

They’re best friends, you realize, when Katie directs her to Effy’s room confidently, the clack of her heels echoing through the hallways, and Effy gives her a spontaneous hug and a kiss on the cheek before she notices you in the background.

“Naomi Campbell,” she says, with that same mysterious smile she’s always had, but her eyes are drawn and her wrists are bandaged.  You don’t take the piss.

“Fuck, you idiot,” you just say, and then hug her as well.  She’s brittle like a bird in your arms, and when she gets back into her bed a moment later, it’s almost a relief.

“How’s the world of art?” Effy asks.  She’s shockingly lucid, and you worry about what Tony said; about how little things set her off, but you shrug and say, “S’all right, I suppose.  It’s relaxing.”

“They let me paint during group therapy sometimes.  I mostly just want to throw paint at the canvas, honestly, but hey,” Ef says, and Katie laughs softly before opening up the blinds and letting some light in.

  

  1. Seconds later, you’re holding up the canvas of Effy, in a dark club, dancing with her eyes closed, and the shimmer of strobe lights streaking across her face.
  



“Cool,” is all that Effy says, but the way she’s looking at herself, it’s like they’re two separate people altogether—Elizabeth, you think, and then get slightly nauseous without warning.

“That’s actually pretty fucking good,” Katie says, from the other end of the bed.

“I’ve—got one for you too,” you say, even though you’re not sure you want to hand this one over in front of an audience.

Katie raises her eyebrows.  “What was the assignment—paint everyone you’ve ever fucking met?”

Effy laughs but then looks at the picture again, traces the strobes, and gets lost in it; you take advantage and dig out the second to last canvas, and hold it up.

Katie doesn’t say anything for a long while, and then makes some sort of noise of distress in the back of her throat before leaving the room.

“Ouch,” you say, softly.

Effy just reaches for the canvas and then smiles.  “Oh, she’ll love it.  Just a bit raw, that whole thing; with Emily still not being back and all…”

You look at the painting yourself—two little girls, one pressing a boy up against a locker, and the other one watching it go down with a frightened look on her face but a bit, fierce lip—and sigh.  “It was a shitty idea.  This is what Emily broke up with me for, you know.”

“It’s obviously not really,” Effy says, placidly, and then pats you on the hand.  “It’s all right.  Katie will be all right.”

You watch a bit of a Hollyoaks marathon on Effy’s bed, and then Katie comes back in, looking like herself again; which is to say, a bit annoyed, and a lot defensive.

“The bows were green, not red,” she tells you, and then sits down on the other end of Effy’s bed without saying anything at all.

“Artist’s license, Katie,” you say, after a while.

She ignores you the rest of the afternoon, but takes the painting with her when she leaves.  You consider it a victory.

\----

JJ and baby Albert goes over much better.

“No, I still see him; of course I do, he and I bonded, you know, and he needs a positive male influence, but—well, I appreciate this a lot, Naomi,” he says, in the doorway, without letting you in further.

He looks older, like university has done him some good, and you smile before saying, “Sorry it didn’t work out.”

“Yeah, me too,” he tells you, with a pointed look.

You amble down the street as fast as you can without running, just so the memories don’t swallow you whole.

\----

Katie shows up at your house two days later, after you’ve had an unbearably frustrating time of feeling the need to paint but not having a single bit of inspiration; she’s got the same black umbrella, but she doesn’t look as forgiving as she did the last few times you saw her.

“Since you were twelve, huh?  The painting?” she asks, before pushing past you into your house.

“Yeah, something like that,” you say, and then direct her up the stairs, to your old bedroom. There is still so much of Emily’s shit in it that you’re not surprised when Katie freezes in the doorway, and then takes two direct strides towards a top that you don’t remember ever seeing on Emily.

“Fucking dozy cow, this is mine; do you have any idea how long I’ve been looking for it?” Katie asks, turning to look at you.

You shrug helplessly.  “Haven’t been in here much, since she left.  Sorry.”

“Christ,” Katie sighs, before knitting the top in her hands and sitting down on your bed.  A moment later, she glances at the bed, and stands back up.

You laugh unwillingly.  “We have washed the sheets since, you know.”

Katie sits back down and then just stares at you, until you look away uncomfortably.  “You thought I was Emily, didn’t you; the one who cried, versus the one who just goes around hitting people.”

“Can you blame me?” you ask her, and after a moment she almost smiles, but instead just looks out the window.

“I’ve always been good at bossing Emily around.  Other people, not so much—it’s like how it’s always been with our little brother.  I try to yell at James, but when that doesn’t work, Emily’s the one who’s got the balls to tackle him.  She’s always had that, you know?”

“I wouldn’t dream of calling you a coward, Katie,” you say, carefully.

She laughs in response and looks at the top.  “I’m not really, not anymore; I’ve just learned how to be—different, you know?  But that day, some boy named Kyle had pulled on my hair so hard that he actually yanked a clump of it out, and all I could think of doing was sitting there and crying and asking him why he’d done it.  I didn’t do any of those things, but before I could decide what I did want to do, Emily was already there, pummeling away at him.”

“She loved you, you know.”  It’s a pointless comment to make, but it appears to be the right one.

She takes a deep breath and nods.  “We’re not all that different.  If I had somewhere to run to, I’d probably run as well.”

You don’t know what to say to that, and instead head downstairs and put the kettle on; your mum comes in from work and says, “I might be hallucinating things, but there’s an orange Vespa outside, and—“

“It’s mine now,” Katie says, from the stairs.  “Or, well, I suppose it isn’t technically, but she’d have to come and pry it out of my hands at this point.”

“It’s a good scooter,” your mum just says, before pushing past her up the stairs, and Katie watches her go with a weird look on her face.

“Did she not know that—you know, we’re twins?”

“No, she did,” you say, stirring idly into Katie’s cup.  You assume she takes her tea the same way Emily does, and when she doesn’t correct you after a sip, you know you’re right.  “Not every mother insists on making their children’s dating lives the eight circle of hell, you know.”

Katie smiles faintly and says, “Mum’s not so bad anymore; she’s backed off now that she knows I’m infertile.  Apparently the trauma compensates for the fact that I don’t want to marry one of the shitheads I’m likely to meet through work.”

“They’re all shitheads?” you ask, because that other thing—Jesus, you think, and remember a question on a caravan step that suddenly became a lot more important.

“Well, they’re engaged to be married, so if they want to go out for a drink with me…” Katie says, and then rolls her eyes.  “Whatever.  I’m not bothered.  I saw you and Emily together, and if that’s what true love is like—fucking keep it, you know?”

“It’s not always like that,” you say, needing to believe it.

“No, I suppose sometimes you lose your mind altogether and your boyfriend gets beaten to death by your psychiatrist,” Katie snipes.

It’s unhelpful, but after a moment you start to laugh, and she joins you.

“Everything is so fucked up, isn’t it,” you say, shaking your head and trying to stop, because you don’t want to find any of these things funny.

“I keep looking at that painting and thinking, Jesus, what if you’d tried to kiss me at that party?” Katie says, when your laughter’s winded down.  “You know?”

“Would’ve gotten smacked in the face, as opposed to followed around for two years.”

“I meant more like, Emily’s not me; she would’ve just—accepted it, and that would’ve been the end of it, really. No bullying for you.”

It’s like she’s trying to apologize, sort of, and you let her off the hook.  “We were just stupid kids, Katie.  It’s fine.”

Katie nods after a moment and then she looks at you questioningly.  “We could be friends now, right?  I mean, not close, you live too far away—but we could be friends now.”

“You’re at my house, and I made you tea,” you point out.  “That’s fairly friendly, isn’t it.”

“Yeah,” Katie says, and then looks out into the garden.  “Christ.  Why did you think it was a good idea to yell ‘I fucked a dead girl’ in front of my mother, again?”

“I thought we were going to be friends,” you point out, and watch as Katie’s lips curve into another smile.

You finish your tea in silence, and then Katie picks up her soaking wet umbrella and heads towards the door again.

“You know—“she starts to say, when you’re there.  “For the longest time, I didn’t think you were good enough for her; but it isn’t like that, is it?”

“Isn’t it?” you ask, because it’s not like you haven’t thought the same thing yourself, millions of times.

“No, it’s more like—you were the best you could be, it was just never what she needed.  The timing was all fucked up.”

“Cheers.  I’ll get that tattooed on my fucking wrists, just in case I ever get the urge…” you sigh, and Katie rolls her eyes; then, she pops on her toes really quickly, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

 “She wasn’t perfect, Naomi.  Let yourself move on, will you?”

You stand there dumbly while she heads out on the street, and then feel your eyes water up when she produces the safety goggles that Emily refused to wear and tugs them over her eyes without blinking; then, you almost laugh when she has to hike her skirt up almost to the point of indecency to even get on the thing, but when she drives off, it’s in a straight line, with a straight back.

It’s nothing like Emily’s infernal wobbling, you know, and you light a cigarette and watch her disappear from sight.  Maybe it means something, you think when your fag is done and the door is closed.

Maybe you can make it mean something, you think an hour later, and your blank canvas is covered in paint.

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to the usual suspects, who not only told me about that S4 ending speech Naomi gave, but also encouraged me to rip it to shreds.


End file.
